Ye Shall Cope
by Stollhofen125
Summary: Pre "Pain in the Heart". Day-to-day musings after Booth's death, as Bones attemps to find a way to cope.


So, this is my first ever Bones fanfic. I quite enjoy the show, but have never been to compelled to write about since seeing "Pain in the Heart". I apologize if this story isn't what you were hoping it would be, or if you don't think it follows character.

Disclaimer: Not mine. :)

* * *

Coping.

As soon as he died, that word vanished from her vocabulary. He died on a Sunday.

On Monday, she went to his house. She stood at the door, pretending that she was just waiting for him to open it on the other side. When he didn't, she sighed. Used her spare key. And stole every article of clothing in his apartment. That night, even though it was 38 degrees, she slept in his parka. Nothing could warm her heart, but she would live the rest of her life smelling like him if she could.

On Tuesday, she carried out his will. Almost all of it had gone to Parker, but a small portion had plopped itself in her lap. She bought a pie. Burned it slowly over her stove. She found a forgotten pie plate at the bottom of her cupboard. She cut the letter "B" out of the bottom.

On Wednesday, she drove to Naples, NY. Pie capital of the world. She found a beach, and buried the "B" in the ocean. She wrote Booth sixty-two times in the sand, one for each hour he had left her.

On Thursday, she thought to smear lamb's blood over his doorway. She settled with emailing him the Bible passage, filling his inbox till it broke. "And will not suffer the destroyer to come in unto your houses to smite you. And ye shall observe this thing for an ordinance to thee and to thy sons for ever"

On Friday night, she found herself dancing in her living room to 'Hot Blooded'. His blue shirt, the one the wore when they went dancing, was tied around her waist like a bikini wrap. Five beer bottles lay scattered around her feet, one for each second she had waited before joining him in dancing. Why had she always been so reluctant?

On Saturday, she saw him. There had been a car outside her apartment for an hour or so, so she eventually moved to her kitchen and turned off the light. Peering through the darkness, she saw him, sitting there, staring at her house. She shook her head, and when she thought to open her eyes, he was gone. She barely made it to the bathroom before she violently vomited. Dry heaving, she eventually passed out on the floor matt.

Angela didn't find her till Sunday night.

On Monday, her neighbour played 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' on the radio. When her mentally shrieks for them to stop didn't work, she banged on her bedroom window till it broke. The pain was blissful and dull, and the neighbours moved on to another track. She left the glass in, hoping that by the time it passed out of her hand, he'd be here or she'd be dead.

Tuesday was Tuesday. She'd been her before.

Wednesday. They were both born on Wednesdays.

Thursday. Work. She identified 18 bodies in 24 hours. A new record. Cam told her to stop, but when she saw her hands clasped around the surgical knife so hard her knuckles turned white, Cam backed away slowly. She stared at her foreign body, and wondered if she would have recognized herself in the mirror.

Friday. Her first conversation. She bobbed her head as her neighbour told her passing gossip. It felt refreshing, as refreshing as having porcupine quills pulled from her skull, to only find out that they left a dozen in and wouldn't be able to remove them.

On Saturday, they mourned. She smiled for the first time, as she saw Booth's extra sneakers still under her desk. And she surprised herself by not crying either. She had cried every day. She had put up such brave faces for Cam, Sweets, even Angela, but tears had been her refuge. Now, she was moving to smiles. His smile? His smile was stunning. His cheeks would pull up and—

A raindrop hit her hand.

Sunday. What a beautiful day for a funeral. She had somewhat moved back into a routine, though she slept in his robe every night, and wore his socks in her shoes. When they begged her to go, she resented her 'happy side' saying to go too.

No.

He was dead.

He couldn't be—

_"Booth?"_ she asked mentally.

All the anger. All the resentment. Two weeks without uttering his name. And now, here he was. So, doing what any reasonable woman would do, she punched him.

Running away, she looked down at her throbbing hand. The glass sliver was starting to poke its way out of her skin. She had observed this thing, as an ordinance to Booth. And he was here. And she was not dead. For ever.


End file.
